The stars and the moon. The music of our lives and something to do with the slithers of light that come through her fingers as she takes herself to a place without darkness. It’s all white light and electricity and teeth and gums and curled toes and ceilings and swaying light bulbs. It’s all about those few seconds where she blocks out everything on the outside and instead focuses on that flickering yet steady dot in the back of her skull. That region that’s as murky and as sacred as the first phases of the beginning of the universe. The place that speaks to us in our sleep. The place from where we were born and where we will return to once more. Origin, She-Bear. Sometimes, when she squints and clenches and tenses and holds her breath, it all makes sense, and her sorrow subsides, but it never lasts half as long as it should, and before you know it, she’s grounded and in the dirt once more. But even though she’s dirty and she’s weak and she’s a cheater and a whore, I love her all the same. There are constellations that spell out her name, and there are black holes that contain her rage. There are alleyways in town that stink of piss where her regret strolls around looking neither here nor there, and in a room with the curtains shut, there lie her secret dreams she keeps wrapped in cotton wool far from the hands of those who care little for such delicacies. Between her toes, there are strands of thought that travel around back and forth like the tiny bubbles of soap that cling to her body as she dissolves in the bath wishing so much to squeeze between the cracks so as to taste a way of being far from the stains of human misery. And those stains, they’ll do their best to snuff her out, but as long as she remembers not to believe in their hollow words, she’ll be fine, I’m sure. The music of our lives, and how we seldom hear its tune. The journey we take and make in haste, so often ending up right where we belong which is right back where we started.